On leaving the house of the dead man Diotti walked wearily to his
hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement
for Thursday evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti's last
appearance: "To-night I play for the last time," he murmured in a voice
filled with deepest regret.
The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the
goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not
rid himself of the memory of Sanders' tragic death. The figure of the
old man clutching the violin and staring with glassy eyes into the
dying fire would not away.
When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain
banished every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room,
and finally dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred.
It was after five o'clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and
without any mark of affection.
She had heard of Mr. Sanders' death; her father had sent word. "It
shocked me greatly," she said; "but perhaps the old man is happier in a
world far from strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is
in this world we often wonder why we should care to live." Her tone was
despondent, her face was drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence
of weeping.
Diotti divined that something beyond sympathy for old Sanders' sudden
death racked her soul. He went toward her and lovingly taking her
hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were cold as marble.
"Darling," he said; "something has made you unhappy. What is it?"
"Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?"
This unexpected question came so suddenly he could not control his
agitation.
"Why do you ask?" he said.
"You must answer me directly!"
"No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen,"
this hesitatingly and with great effort at composure.
"In what way is it different?" she almost demanded.
"It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this
sudden interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of
our future," said he with enforced cheerfulness.
"No, we will talk of the violin. Of what use is the extra string?"
"None whatever," was the quick reply.
"Then why not cut it off?"
"No, no, Mildred; you do not understand," he cried; "I can not do that."
"You can not do it when I ask it?" she exclaimed.
"Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can not, can not do it," and the face of
the affrighted musician told plainer than words of the turmoil raging
in his soul.
"You made me believe that I was the only one you loved," passionately
she cried; "the only one; that your happiness was incomplete without
me. You led me into the region of light only to make the darkness
greater when I descended to earth again. I ask you to do a simple thing
and you refuse; you refuse because another has commanded you."
"Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do not speak thus!"
And she, with imagination greater than reasoning power, at once saw a
Tuscan beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their love with their lives.
"Go," she said, pointing to the door, "go to the one who owns you, body
and soul; then say that a foolish woman threw her heart at your feet
and that you scorned it!" She sank to the sofa.
He went toward the door, and in a voice that sounded like the echo of
despair, protested: "Mildred, I love you; love you a thousand times
more than I do my life. If I should destroy the string, as you ask,
love and hope would leave me forevermore. Death would not be robbed of
its terror!" and with bowed head he went forth into the twilight.
She ran to the window and watched his retreating figure as he vanished.
"Uncle Sanders was right; he loves another woman, and that string binds
them together. He belongs to her!" Long and silently she stood by the
window, gazing at the shadowing curtain of the coming night. At last
her face softened. "Perhaps he does not love her now, but fears her
vengeance. No, no; he is not a coward! I should have approached him
differently; he is proud, and maybe he resented my imperative manner,"
and a thousand reasons why he should or should not have removed that
string flashed through her mind.
"I will go early to the concert to-night and see him before he plays.
Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that string when he played. Of
course he will play on it for me, even if he will not cut it off, and
then if he says he loves me, and only me, I will believe him. I want to
believe him; I want to believe him," all this in a semi-hysterical way
addressed to the violinist's portrait on the piano.
When she entered her carriage an hour later, telling the coachman to
drive direct to the stage-door of the Academy, she appeared more
fascinating than ever before.
She was sitting in his dressing-room waiting for him when he arrived.
He had aged years in a day. His step was uncertain, his eyes were
sunken and his hand trembled. His face brightened as she arose, and
Mildred met him in the center of the room. He lifted her hand and
pressed a kiss upon it.
"Angelo, dear," she said in repentant tone; "I am sorry I pained you
this afternoon; but I am jealous, so jealous of you."
"Jealous?" he said smilingly; "there is no need of jealousy in our
lives; we love each other truly and only."
"That is just what I think, we will never doubt each other again, will
we?"
"Never!" he said solemnly.
He had placed his violin case on the table in the room. She went to it
and tapped the top playfully; then suddenly said: "I am going to look
at your violin, Angelo," and before he could interfere, she had taken
the silken coverlet off and was examining the instrument closely.
"Sure enough, it has five strings; the middle one stands higher than
the rest and is of glossy blackness. Uncle Sanders was right; it is a
woman's hair!
"Why is that string made of hair?" she asked, controlling her emotion.
"Only a fancy," he said, feigning indifference.
"Though you would not remove it at my wish this afternoon, Angelo; I
know you will not refuse to play on it for me now."
He raised his hands in supplication. "Mildred! Mildred! Stop! do not
ask it!"
"You refuse after I have come repentant, and confessing my doubts and
fears? Uncle Sanders said you would not play upon it for me; he told me
it was wrapped with a woman's hair, the hair of the woman you love."
"I swear to you, Mildred, that I love but you!"
"Love me? Bah! And another woman's tresses sacred to you? Another
woman's pledge sacred to you? I asked you to remove the string; you
refused. I ask you now to play upon it; you refuse," and she paced the
room like a caged tigress.
"I will watch to-night when you play," she flashed. "If you do not use
that string we part forever."
He stood before her and attempted to take her hand; she repulsed him
savagely.